Twisted Tree
by The Bad Joke
Summary: "You could always jump." A smirk crawls onto a face like a twitching centipede. IzuruXGin. IzuruXShuuhei DARK. SURREAL. Rating will change.
1. Chapter 1

I'm not dead, believe it or not.

I shouldn't be starting something new, considering how I have yet to complete any of my other stories, but I can't help it. Although I have not been active on this site, I have been writing a lot. Yet I'm too afraid to publish any of my works. They are all quite horrendous. Publishing this is actually making me nervous.

On a friendlier note, I do hope that you enjoy. If you have read my horrid-of-a-story called **Scraping**, then just think of this as a spin-off to it, or something (despite the fact that it is not complete). Please be aware of the fact that this is sort of dark. Personally, I don't think it's too bad, but something may look different to me than it does to you.

* * *

><p><strong>Twisted Tree<strong>

**Chapter 1**

"He was drifting in and out of sanity  
>But in every other way he was fine"<p>

Solitary Shell - Dream Theater

* * *

><p>"What's wrong with you?"<p>

* * *

><p>Streaming black stains the sink as it is sucked in by the drain.<p>

His trembling fingers are yanking at the hair of his scalp, sliding down until they meet the foreign short ends.

He is unable to recall anything that has happened before this.

Abruptly, in an act of denial, he leans his head under the running water, scrubbing away at the black. He clutches his hair with his hands, groping it after it has been thoroughly soaked. He repeats this meaningless process several times.

And then looks up at the mirror.

Slowly, hands push back dripping hair, revealing a terrified face staring back into the glass.

This has been happening for a long time now, but he is still not used to it.

By his feet, a sable substance leaks out of a small container, almost empty. Beside it, a dagger wrapped in several strands of hair sits patiently.

Waiting.

* * *

><p>His legs are intertwined between the soft fleece of tainted blankets. The fabric snugly sticks to the sweat of his bare body. In this condition, he feels like absolute shit; he is covered in too many unnecessary bodily fluids and is much too discombobulated to feel content. The empty feeling of dried salt on his face makes him cringe.<p>

Strong arms pull him in, reintroducing him to the warmth of the body that he hates and loves all at once.

He feels like crying again.

"Why me?" he brokenly whimpers.

The other does not reply.

* * *

><p>Dangerous amounts of blood leak from his abdomen. Off of pure instinct, he clutches at the torn skin, attempting to apply pressure anywhere he deems appropriate, but the red stuff just keeps spurting out.<p>

Through golden strands and blurred vision, he looks up at the figure holding a sword. Red streams down the blade.

He watches as it drips.

_drip. _

_drop._

_drip._

_drop._

_drip._

He wonders why it has to end this way. No; he wonders why it could not have ended this way sooner. He has been waiting for this for decades. For centuries.

He has been waiting for much too long, and he is absolutely sick of it. His lips twitch into a demented smile as the shining figure drenched in red approaches. He finds himself counting the steps it takes: _one, two, three, four._ The sharp tip of the red sword taps against the skin of his neck, preparing for the sweet essence of the life it is about to claim. His eyes shutter several times before closing.

"Do it."

He can feel the abrupt relief of metal against his skin as it disappears. His heart sinks deep into his stomach at the realization. He looks up just in time to witness the figure hovering above him smirk.

"No," it whispers. "Not yet."

_drop._

He can practically feel the metal slicing his neck.

* * *

><p>"You're not okay."<p>

He looks up to see a face full of concern and a tad bit of frustration. He wiggles his toes before swinging his legs awkwardly, much like a child would. And then, tilting his head to the side, musters all of his remaining strength to smile. The very action splits his face in two, cracking his skin until it all chips off to reveal a face of raw flesh underneath.

"Of course I am."

Dark eyes narrow. Eyebrows furrow. Teeth anxiously nip at chapped lips.

"Do you want to go outside? You know, to get some fresh air?"

He wants to say how going outside to get some fresh air is a bad idea, because the air is not fresh. There is nothing fresh about the air because it is dirty, and it is amazing that nobody chokes every time they inhale. It confuses him, how the body works around these sort of things.

He stops moving his legs. The smile on his face disappears, but only momentarily. He smiles even harder this time and says, "That sounds like a great idea."

The man in front of him appears to be relieved, if anything. His deep sigh is evidence of this. The mess-of-a-being in front of him hops up from his sitting position, making direct eye contact with him while doing so. His dark blue eyes speak only of agony. The smile is still there, pasted on dried lips, ominous and dreary.

"Just let me pick up my face first."

Always smiling.

"What?"

* * *

><p>Sweat rolls down his face in heavy beads as his body involuntarily jolts upward. The air quickly becomes hot as he pants in ragged breathes. His clothing droops by his shoulders, threatening to slide off. But before that can happen he forcefully yanks it down, completely exposing his upper body, just because he needs to cool down. He might just wither away if he is not careful. He inhales unsteadily, attempting to regain composure he possible has never had.<p>

His head is spinning and he has no idea how to make it stop. Breathing does not seem to be very effective. It never has. He buries his face into his trembling hands. He feels like the room is closing in on him, and it will squish him like the bug he is any second now. It could happen. A lot of things happen to him that he cannot understand.

Instinctively, his fingers go to graze the short length of his hair. He clutches it and pulls at it with increasing frustration. He ignores the silent screams of his scalp and tugs harder.

"God, damn it," he shouts. When his scalp screams too loud for it to be bearable anymore, salt water lightly flutters in his eyes. He kicks and thrashes wildly at the air, wanting nothing more than to inflict pain on another being. Desperate hands grope at the thick air but return each time with nothing. He bumps the back of his skull against the bed until he no longer can. Exhausted eyes stare up at the darkened ceiling. His chest rises up harshly and then falls with each staggered pant.

"What's wrong with you?"

Despite the darkness, he turns his head in the direction of the voice. All he can make out is the image of a blurry figure standing alone, off to the far corner of the room. He already knows who it is; the voice by itself is enough. It is also enough to give him a pounding headache. He takes cool air into his windpipe in greedy gulps. The heat is making him ravenous.

"What do you want?" he asks rudely, suiting into the new attitude he has reluctantly developed. He can practically hear the smile that curves onto the lips of the dark figure.

"What I always want," it purrs.

The figure glides from the corner to him with remarkable speed, almost like a ghost. Suddenly he is sweating all over again and every single hair on his body stands erect, completely aware that something unpleasant is about to happen. Before he can react for himself he is being pushed up against a wall. Skinny fingers cover his mouth like crooked bars. Fear infests his body like a deadly plague. Another hand roughly cradles the back of his head, forcing him to look forward. All he can see is a set of consuming blue eyes gazing into him.

He attempts to push the hand over his mouth away, but pathetically fails; they are only detached from his tortured face for less than a second before returning, this time only more angry. Nails pierce the soft flesh of his face. His body arches into the figure with his hips, hoping this will somehow pry the being off of him. It does not.

"G-Gin," he mutters. And then again and again, with more desperation each time, until he is practically screaming his name. A cruel hand grabs at short hair, suddenly yanking it back, causing the owner of it to face up at the ceiling. Everything stops moving. Pretty soon the sounds of precious inhaling and exhaling can be heard.

"Relax," Gin says gently. "I was just kidding." He softly kisses miserable skin. This is his demented way of apologizing, if he realizes it or not.

He hates him so much.

The feeling of relief courses through him as hands release him. He sits up slowly, remaining guarded until he is absolutely positive Gin is finished screwing with him. He goes to touch his neck where the wetness of kisses can be felt. He rubs angrily at them, actually believing this will somehow make them go away. The cruel man watches him, fully entertained at the mess-of-a-creature in front of him. He has always enjoyed observing insects squirm, especially when he is the one inflicting the motivational pain.

"What was that for?" a hoarse voice growls. Fingers resume tugging the short ends of hair as if nothing has happened. He wishes this was true. His hands collapse in his lap. Gin swiftly moves beside the miserable being, leaning his shoulder against the wall in order to see a face full of anguish. He moves his haunting hands to touch short hair. He can feel the other tense at this.

"I'm not sure." He can hear the smirk in his voice, the invisible venom seeping though his teeth and past his lips. "Can you ever forgive me?" He pets his hair like he is a dog. Like he is his miserable, sad, sad, sad little puppy. And he hates it.

But not Gin. He is enjoying this. He talks as if this is some sort of game.

Maybe it really is.

"Never," he says through his frowning mouth. He sighs, moving away to detach the unwanted fingers from his hair. It surprises him that Gin actually allows him to do so. He is waiting for him to grab him abruptly, pull him in, swallow him whole. He briefly wonders what he would taste like. Fingers are in his hair again. He slaps them away.

"Just leave me alone."

"And why would I do that?"

He knows he will never leave him alone. Or, if he ever did, he would desire for him to stay. He knows this because it has already happened too many times to count. It always ends the same way: he crawls back to the silver haired man, tail between his legs, whimpering. He cannot help the way his mind works. He presses his hands against Gin's chest, giving him a hard push. As pathetic as it is, this is the most he is capable of anymore.

Dark blue eyes capture light ones, gnawing angrily like a restrained animal reluctantly approaching death, determined enough to keep fighting but frightened enough to take its own life.

"Screw off."

Tearing its own heart out.

* * *

><p>Haunting hands curl around his throat, digits squeezing the air out of him with the pure intention of fatality. He takes in morsels of air in short, panicked gasps, which become quicker with growing anxiety. His own hands scratch wildly at the lethal pair constricting his airways. His legs flail, swing, kick in every direction possible.<p>

It is amazing what the body will do in order to survive.

His throat is closing in on him without his consent, giving up completely, only leaving enough room for maybe a small insect to squeeze down it. Just as his heart is about to pop out of his chest, it slows down, calm and ready to cease its laborious work once and for all. His mouth open frighteningly wide does not see the point in trying anymore, and so it relaxes itself shut. Eyes roll upwards into a darkened skull, whispering a harsh farewell to the cruel, cruel world.

Blotches of light bloom from the darkness, illuminating an unmoving body, strained and alone, lightly gliding across a battered neck until they disintegrate into the dark. The door shuts with a conclusive click. The figure behind it, however, is anything but satisfied.

The air has lost all of its thickness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"It puts my back up  
>Puts my back up against the wall"<p>

Bloody Sunday - U2

* * *

><p>"You could always jump."<p>

A head turns to the hoarse sound of his voice. A smirk crawls onto a face like a twitching centipede.

"Why didn't you?"

* * *

><p>The strings holding the fabric together easily come undone as angry hands mutilate the object before them. The hands yank stuffing out of every orifice they find, and create new ones as they become more and more frantic. Button eyes eventually pop out from all of the pressure lingering underneath of them. The cute, etched smile begins to look like a frown. When his hands are finished with their torture, he smacks the remains of the stuffed plaything on the ground. He stares down at it as his breathe gradually calms.<p>

And there he sits, remaining silent and staring for hours.

When his mind starts working appropriately again, it is nearly morning. He is neither confused or shocked at what he has done. These type of things are to be expected. It is just a matter of hiding the evidence from curious eyes; that is all that is important to him now. And so, he collects every part of the stuffed toy he can find: the button eyes, the stuffing, the strings, and the detached limbs. Using his hands, he digs a small hole into the ground and plants the stuffed thing with all of its stuffed parts in it, giving it a funeral minus the headstone.

When he is finished, he heads back into his house. Just for the sake of sleeping and nothing else. If he sleeps, there is less of a chance of him doing something he will regret.

These type of things are to be expected.

* * *

><p>He stands beside the hospital bed that she has been secluded to. He watches as the oxygen mask growing around her face becomes cloudy every time she takes a breath. He watches as her chest struggles to rise - as if thorns are sitting inside of her chest cavity while her body tries to avoid them - and then pathetically falls. He finds himself staring at the monitor, at how the green light beeps along with every beat of her miserable heart. Feeding tubes have been planted into her skin, forcing the raw, bare essentials into her body like some sort of artificial fertilizer. All of the technology buzzing around her makes her seem as if she is part of the machinery as well. He is afraid that she will be hard and cold if he dared to touch her.<p>

On the windowsill is a single flower sitting inside of a tiny pot. From here, he can tell it is dying. Perhaps the excess sunlight is drying the poor thing out. Or maybe the soil meant to nourish it is actually drowning it. He could attempt to take care of it and it probably would still die, just because he does not know what is wrong with it.

Leaving her side, he walks over to the small flower. The leaves are a sort of brown, wrinkling and curling into the stem that has somehow maintained a light green color. Most of the petals, however, have fallen into the pot; the drooping top of the flower is only hanging less than an inch from the soil. Could this thing even be called a flower anymore? Sighing, he reaches out to touch the stem - the seemingly strongest part of the entire plant. When his nails barely graze it, he reaches further to touch it with his fingertips.

When he does, the festering flower curls into itself completely; the leaves gasp into a crisp, letting go and hitting the soil while the stem slightly twitches before turning black. Meanwhile, the top of the flower smacks down, finally making contact with the closest thing it will ever get to real land. The monitor momentarily beeps faster. He just stares.

When the sun finally disappears from the sky, he looks back at the fake machine girl, still lying on her moist, nutrient rich bed.

And he wonders:

What would happen if he touched her?

* * *

><p>His voice is taunting, serious, raging like an unstoppable fire spitting hot ash down on sensitive skin just because it likes to watch flesh sizzle. Yet, the sad being finds himself not caring at all. He is desperate. He is confused. And he is stupid. He is so desperately confused and stupid that he will follow a man that does not wish to be bothered. And to make matters worse, this is a dangerous man, which should never communicate with others; if it is angered even in the slightest it will swallow you whole and spit out your bones. However, for some unfathomable reason, it does not feel the need to do that. Yet. And so the fiery voice says:<p>

"Why are you following us?"

And then, completely ignoring him as if a question was never asked, he says:

"Gin, why does your puppy feel it is necessary to follow us?"

The sad being's face is twitching involuntarily as the white figure drifts toward him, sword gripped loosely in a frighteningly slender hand. All he can do is stare as the sword tickles his exposed skin. The figure draws lines on his hands and adds new ones on his wrists. Though he is late to respond to the dull pain, he moves his hands away. The smile in front of him makes him feel as if his head will explode any second now.

"So," says the ghostly figure, "why are you following us? Or me, rather?"

His mouth opens, but apparently too slowly. There is suddenly metal invading his flesh, tearing away at his abdomen. Blood gushes out of him like a partially clogged waterfall, dripping red. He stares down at his wound like he is surprised, but really, this hardly counts as surprising at all.

This has to be the second time he has ran back to this man, tail between his legs. And this has to be the second time he has been cut down for it.

And this definitely has to be the second time Gin insists on asking, "Why?"

And this is the last time the sad voice mutters, "Not sure," before passing out.

* * *

><p>"How many has there been?"<p>

The man with the slow vanishing face turns his head in the direction of the quiet, slightly sad voice. His dark eyes widen a bit, a hint of genuine confusion fluttering in them. Somewhat curious, arching his eyebrows, he finds himself asking, "What do you mean?"

"How many people have you been with?" the sad voice says, "Not including me." Slowly curling into himself, resting his chin on his clothed arm, slightly tilting his head as he looks at the man beside him, he waits for an answer. The other merely stares for several moments, saying nothing at all. And then, grins and goes to run a hand through his dark hair.

"That's not really important, is it?" he says, nervousness infecting his voice. "I'm here with you now and that's all that matters, right?"

Sad blue eyes glimmer. A frightening monster violently claws its way out of them, gnawing angrily at the other man, bearing sharp teeth and claws. It wants to devour everything it can find just for the sake of its own jealousy. It wants to know everything, and it will do anything to accomplish this goal.

"Tell me."

His nervous grin remains constant; however, it eventually fades after realizing that the other is serious. The menacing look in his eyes makes his skin tremble. Clearing his throat, he says, "There's been plenty. Though I've been with more women than men, if that matters." And then, he quickly adds, "Are you satisfied?"

"Is there anyone you regret leaving?"

The dark haired man frowns and then sighs deeply. Annoyed, he asks, "Why are you interrogating me?"

"Tell me," the sad voice says a little too loud.

His dark eyes appear shocked, but then quickly return to normal; he is used to the other man's attitude by now. He always acts like this, and he will never change. This he is certain of. To satisfy him, he says, "There was this one girl I met at the academy. We were together for almost more than two years. We were thinking about moving in together after graduation, but . . ." He stops, hesitation in his voice.

Interested, the sad being leans in closer without realizing, and waits. But what he is waiting for never comes, so he says, "What happened?"

"I still have some of her stuff with me," the dark haired man says absently, completely ignoring the question.

Somewhat frustrated, the other asks, "Like what?"

"Stuffed toys."

* * *

><p>He wakes to the sound of his heart pounding up against his chest. To the sound of him gasping sharply as his body jolts upward. He does not know what surprises him more: the fact he can still feel his heart beating or that he can hear himself breathing. Somehow, this makes him angry.<p>

Perhaps off of some survival reaction, his hand quickly snaps toward his neck. Lightly, his fingers graze it, feeling the tender flesh that he has been marked with. It stings with a dull pain, which is quickly beginning to bug him; it is difficult to move his head without it hurting. And there is another thing that bugs him. Putting it into a form of a question would make it look like this:

Why?

He pulls the bed linen off of him right before hopping off of the bed. The ground is cold against his feet. His toes begin to wriggle and then curl in tightly, nails pressing into the soft flesh of his feet. He takes a deep breath and goes to walk toward the door. He slowly opens it, peeking through the gap as it grows larger. When he is sure there is no one in the hall, and no one will walk by, he shuts the door behind him, heading for anywhere but where he is now.

As he walks in fast strides, he looks out the holes in the walls, which are supposed to be windows. They are unnecessarily large, he realizes. Large enough for a body to slip through them with ease. He has thought about jumping on numerous occasions. He has, in fact, even attempted to but was unexpectedly stopped by Gin. He screamed at the other man as he dragged him away, but inside he was reluctantly grateful. He had wanted someone to save him. He just had not wanted it to be Gin.

His bare feet tap lightly against the white, polished floors, moving aimlessly yet seeming as if a predetermined destination exists.

Sometimes he wishes Gin would have just given him a light push through that gaping window. It would have been simple. So simple, it pains him to even think about it. Because, sometimes, all a person needs is a little motivation to get them going. In this case, it was a push.

Just a push, and he would have gone crashing down.

He wonders what he would look like in pieces.

* * *

><p>He commends himself for being able to find the white figure so easily. He is standing by a window that is not really a window, but rather a hole of some sort. From here, it appears he is staring out of it, but then again there is nothing much to look at out there. Just some sand, and some more sand, and so on. The sad being is probably a decent fifty feet away from him, but he can smell him from here. And the smell is not pleasant in the slightest. Not to his nose, at least.<p>

He approaches Gin quick enough for him not to sense his presence. Either that, or he is ignoring him. When he is only a body's length away, he stops moving. He stands there and stares at Gin. Stares at his draping white clothing. At his shining silver hair. At his sword tucked by his side. And then, he stares out the window like it is the most entertaining thing in the world. If he was fast enough, he could push the other man out of the window/hole. Keyword "could". Instead of committing murder, he says:

"You could always jump."

A head turns to the hoarse sound of his voice. A smirk crawls onto a face like a twitching centipede.

"Sure," he says, "but you first. I will be right behind you."

_"Why didn't you?"_

"Promise."

He feels himself cringe at the other man's words. Anxious, he nips at his lower lip and then his tongue presses against a loose piece of dead skin. With his teeth, he yanks at the bothersome flesh, hoping to tear the damn thing off. His toes begin to twist and curl awkwardly as he struggles with the pathetic task he has set for himself.

"Or, perhaps not? Perhaps now is not the best time?" He is not looking at him, but he can clearly hear Gin frown as he says this. However, humor renewed, the smirk revives once more. Suddenly, the sound of clothes shuffling rings in his ears as the silver haired man moves toward him. His boots tap against the shiny white floors as he walks, somehow enchanting yet terrifying. The sound of memorizing tapping slowly ceases as the man stops by his side. A bony shoulder lightly brushes against his. Intoxicating breath tickles his neck. He pretends not to realize. He is just chewing at his bloody, crusted lips. Everything outside of this realm is completely beyond him.

_nibble._

_nibble._

_nibble. _

_nibble._

"You may have heard. Or you may have not. Either way, I want to enlighten you, or rather, inform you that Aizen-sama finds you to be quite," he pauses, thoughtfully. "Well, how can I put it nicely?"

A nuisance, a bug, an infection? Or perhaps something more vulgar and disgusting would suit him better. Something he cannot comprehend at the moment. However, regardless of what Gin actually believes, any one of them would be correct. The sad being's personal opinion does not matter in this situation; Gin is talking and what Gin says is almost always right. Speaking of which, suggesting by the way he is smirking, he has most likely found his word. And it is:

"No longer necessary?"

Close enough.

"So, to put this in the most tender way I think possible: he wants you dead."

_crunch._

"What?"

With a smile, Gin says, "You heard me: dead. So if you find yourself not being able to wake up one morning, do not be too surprised."

The sad being appears to be accepting of his inevitable fate, but inside, he is panicking. Before Gin prances off into the distance with his puffy tail swinging side to side merrily, he snatches one of his haunting hands, and asks in the strongest voice he can muster, "Is that why you strangled me last night?"

Light blue eyes open momentarily to accompany a perpetual smile as Gin says, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Anger pierces his heart for a split second, but it is gone too soon to grab hold of. Instead, he fakes anger and barks out, "Yes, you do. You were in my room last night and you strangled the living fuck out of me. There are probably marks on my neck if you don't believe me."_  
><em>

A large hand emerges from layers and layers of clothing. It playfully grazes the tender flesh of the other man's neck, enjoying how it trembles under the contact. In a soft voice, Gin says, "I would never touch you like that. Other ways, maybe, but not like that. Perhaps you just dreamt I strangled you and woke up strangling yourself. And then," he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "you passed out."

"Yeah. Right." The man with the sad voice bites the inside of his cheek, and chews.

"Either way, I have to leave now. Have fun deciding whether you are telling the truth or I am. Though I honestly could care less which resolution you come to."

And, with a smile, he is gone.

Anger pierces his heart again, but this time it sticks firmly. Grabbing hold of it, he quickly finds himself rolling on the floor kicking his legs aimlessly into the air. He takes a grip of his hair and yanks hard, harder, hardest and feels as if he has ripped it all out from the roots. He screams until his throat is miserable and raw and he just cannot scream anymore. And when he is drained with his body trembling with rage and ache, he crawls to the window/hole and allows his body to fall out of it.

But only in his head.


End file.
